LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, 



Chap. Copyright No. 



Shelf. 



...SJ. 



UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, 



# # The Ayrshire 
Homes and Haunts 
of Burns # % % % 

Bv I ICNRY G^^HCLLCY 

With Photographs l)v ti^e ?^uthor 




^^^ 



.n ^ 



0. P. PUTNT^n^S SONS 

NEW YORK AND LONDON 

THE KNICf^ERBOChvER PRESS 

1597 



rr\^vi>'v 



CorvKiGHT i8q7 

BY 

G. p. PUTNAM'S SONS 
Entered at Stationers' Hall, London 



Ube ftnfcherbocfcer f»rcss, Iftcvo SJorl? 



t 
k. 

i- 



THE AYRSHIRE HOMES AND 
HAUNTS OF BURNS 



II.LUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

PORTRAIT OF ROBERT BURNS . . . Frontispiece 
THE POET'S BIRTHPI^ACE, AI.I.OWAY ... 45 

AI.I.0WAY'S AUI,D haunted KIRK .... 49 
THE GRAVE OE BURNS'S FATHER . . . . 53^ 

THE AUI,D BRIG O' DOON 57 

MOUNT OI.IPHANT 61 

I.OCHI.EA 67 

TARBOIvTON 7I 

ON THE FAII, 75 

OIvD MASONIC I^ODGE, TARBOIyTON . . . . 79^ 

WII,I.IE'S MII.I. 83' 

BURNS'S SEAT, NEAR WII.I.IE'S MII.I, ... 87 

MOSSGIEI, 91 ' 

THE COWGATE, MAUCHWNE 97 

POOSIE NANSIE'S lOI 

NANCE TINNOCK'S I05 

MAUCHI.INE CASTILE I09 

THE MORISONS' HOME, MAUCHI^INE . . .113 

MARY MORISON'S TOMB II 7 

"daddy AUI^D'S" TOMB 121 

HOI^Y WII^WE'S TOMB 127 



irilustrations 

PAGE 

GAVIN HAMILTON'S I.AIR I3I 

BURIAL PLACE OF' THE ALEXANDERS . . -135 

THE ARMOURS' GRAVE I39 

THE BRAKS OE BALLOCHMYLE I43 

THE BANKS OE AYR I49 



THE AYRSHIRE HOMES OF BURNS 



'* THAN, one limidred years hence, they '11 
^ think mair o' nie than they do now." 
Burns' s prophecy has been amply fulfilled. 
The centenary of his birth was celebrated in 
1859 with an enthusiasm and universality al- 
most unrivalled in the annals of literature. 
" City vied with clachan, peer with peasant, 
philanthropist with patriot, philosopher with 
statesman, orator with poet, in honouring the 
memory of the Ploughman Bard." In the 
year 1896, which marked the centenary of his 
death, the commemoration of that event did not 
lack any of the hero-worship which character- 
ised the celebration of 1859. But that hero- 

[3] 



XLbc a^rsbire Ibomes of JBunis 

worship has taken a different form. The 
Burns admirers thirty-seven years ago ex- 
pressed their feelings through pubhc meetings, 
dinners, suppers, and balls ; they held their 
parliament, as Emerson expressed it on the 
occasion, " with love and poes}^ as men w^ere 
wont to do in the Middle Ages." But a new 
method of celebrating the sons of genius has 
arisen. Every line they wrote is subjected to 
scrupulous editing ; their lives are studied by 
the search-light of diligent criticism ; their 
homes and haunts are delineated by pencil and 
camera. Personality is the ke3aiote of the 
method which has replaced that of 1859. 

Burns lived for thirty-seven years, and he 
spent twenty-seven of them in Ayrshire. A 
line drawn on the map of that county from 
Irvine in the north to Kirkoswald in the south, 
deflected through Kilmarnock, Mauchline, and 

[4] 



Zbe IHgisbire Ibomcs of JGunis 

Dalo'inple, embraces his homes and haunts 
prior to the triumphal appearance in Ivdin- 
burgh. But Irvine, Kihnarnock, and Kirkos- 
wald only retained the poet for a brief vSeason ; 
the first was the scene of his disastrous attempt 
to learn flax-dressing, the second only claimed 
him while he was seeing his poems through 
the press, and the third witnessed his brief 
apprenticeship to the art of mensuration. 
Hence a more restricted line will include all 
of Ayrshire associated with the greater portion 
of Burns' s life. It must start from AUoway, 
run out to Mount Oliphant, turn back and 
pass through Tarbolton, touch at Mossgiel, 
and end in Mauchline. A small theatre for 
great deeds. 

Scotland's two greatest peasant writers — • 
Burns and Carl3de — were both born in houses 
of their fathers' own building. In the case of 

[5] 



^be B^rsblre Ibomes of JBurns 

Carl 3^6' s father, inasmuch as he was a mason, 
this is not particularly remarkable ; but the 
fact that Burns' s father reared with his own 
hands the now famous cottage at Alloway is 
significant of much in the character of the 
man. From, the days of his early manhood, 
when poverty drove him from home on his 
long search after the bare necessaries of life, 
to the closing scene at lyochlea, William Burns 
was engaged in a never-ceasing struggle to 
wrest from the earth a fitting sustenance for 
himself and family, and the only remaining 
monument of any conquest he made is to be 
seen in the ' ' auld clay biggin ' ' where his im- 
mortal son was born. 

Alloway was once a separate parish, but tow- 
ards the end of the seventeenth century it was 
united with that of Ayr, from the town of which 
it is some two miles distant. The approach 



Zhc B^rsbire Ibomes of JBurne 

from Aj-r to AUowa}^ is characteristically nine- 
teenth century. Small semi-detached villas line 
the road on either side, and these fade away 
only to give place to the larger and more pre- 
tentious mansions of countj^ magnates, with a 
race-course for a background. The Burns cot- 
tage itself has rather too much the air of a 
commercial show-place, with its conventional 
turnstile and persistent charge of twopence ad- 
mission. There are relics in plenty scattered 
around, from the bed in which the poet was 
born, to the spinning-wheel of his mother ; but 
somehow the air seems stifling to the literary 
pilgrim, and he is glad to escape from the 
white glare of mediocre sculpture and the vsheen 
of coffee urns — all duly displayed in the tem- 
perance refreshment-room attached to the cot- 
tage — to the freer atmosphere outside. 

A few hundred yards down the road, in the 

[7] 



ZTbe B^rsbiie If^omes of SBimxe 

direction of the ' ' banks and braes o' bonnie 
Doon," the gaunt gables of " Alloway's auld 
haunted kirk ' ' rear themselves high in the 
air. At once the apposite remark of Nathaniel 
Hawthorne flashes across the mind : " Kirk 
Allowa}' is inconceivabl}^ small, considering 
how large a space it fills in our imagination 
before we see it." Its place in literature, as 
the vScene of the midnight orgies witnessed by 
Tam O' Shanter, was secured by a mere acci- 
dent. In the fall of the year 1790, one Captain 
Grose happened to be travelling through Scot- 
land intent on antiquarian study. His path 
crossed that of Burns, who was then trying his 
last farming experiment at EUisland, and the 
two soon became " unco pack and thick the- 
gither." The poet one day pressed the claims 
of Alloway Kirk on the antiquarian's notice, 
and Captain Grose agreed to make a drawing 

[8] 



trbe B\>r6birc 1f3ome5 of Burns 

of the building on condition that the poet fur- 
nished an appropriate witch-stor}^ as comment. 
A bargain was struck, and the result was Tam 
O' Shanter. 

From his childhood to his eighteenth year. 
Burns had been familiar with the old ruin, 
and his mind was .stored with gruesome evil- 
spirit tragedies of which it had been the 
theatre. It was eavS}^ to draw upon these 
memories for his share of the bargain with 
Captain Grose, and not less easy, apparently, 
to immortalise the exploits of Tam O' Shanter, 
for the poem is said to have beenr written in a 
day. And now Kirk AUoway is onl}^ interest- 
ing for Tam O' Shanter' s sake. All its avssocia- 
tions with the joys and .sorrows of past genera- 
tions, its witnessings of baptism, marriage, and 
funeral, its memories of contrition and aspira- 
tion under the spell of Christian exhortation 

[9] 



Cbe B^rsbtre fbomes of JSurng 

and promise, have faded awa}^ and the ear of 
imagination loses the echoes of holy psalm in 
the skirl of that untoward music which fell 
upon the astonished ears of Tam O' Shanter. 

The " winnock-bunker in the east," where 
sat the beast-shaped musician of that unhol}^ 
revel, the opened coffins whence w^ere thrust 
the pallid hands that held aloft the blazing 
torches, the " span-lang " bairns who gazed 
with wide-eyed amazement on the swiftly 
moving dance, the window which framed the 
absorbed face of Tam O' Shanter — these are 
the sights the eye seeks in Alloway Kirk. 
Outside its walls, and among the crowded 
graves which jostle each other with unseemly 
obstinacy in this scant God's-acre, the eye 
wanders in quest of William Burns' s tomb. 

The father of Robert Burns had a double right 
to a resting-place in the shadow of Kirk Allo- 

r lol 



way ; the right of the man whose son lifted it 
into the reahn of poesy, and the right of the 
man who, years before, rebuilt the ruined 
walls of its graveyard. It was natural, then, 
that William Burns should wish to be buried 
in Alloway Church3^ard, and when he at last 
laid down the burden of life at Lochlea in 
1784, his widow and children did not hesitate 
as to where his dust should rest. The small 
headstone which was at first reared over the 
grave has given place to the more substantial 
memorial of the present da}^, on the back of 
which the son's affectionate tribute is in- 
scribed : 

" O ye whose cheek the tear of pity stains, 

Draw near with pious rev'rence and attend ! 

Here He the loving husband's dear remains. 
The tender father, and the gen'rons friend ; 

The pitying heart that felt for human woe, 
The dauntless heart that fear'd no human pride ; 



Zbc Bi?r6birc Ibomes of JBurns 

The friend of man — to vice alone a foe ; 

For ' ev'n his failings lean'd to virtue's side.' " 

It was a lucky chance for Tarn O' Shanter 
that the river Doon and its ' ' anld brig ' ' were 
within easy hail of AUoway Kirk. That irre- 
pressible ' ' Weel done, Cutty-sark ! ' ' started 
the whole pack of midnight revellers at his 
horse's heels : 

" Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, 
And win the keystane o' the brig : 
There at them thou thy tail may toss, 
A running stream they dare na cross." 

The Doon has a new bridge now to bear the 
burden of nineteenth-century traffic, but the 
' ' auld brig ' ' still spans the lovely river, an 
indubitable link between our own time and 
the stormy night of Tam O' Shanter' s ride. 
Other memories than those of Tam O' Shanter 
crowd into the mind while musing by the side 

[ 12] • 



^be B^rsbirc fbomes of JBimis 

of the clear-running Doon. Here are the 
shows of nature which were frail and vain to 
weep a loss that turned their lights to shade. 
Sacred through all time are these banks and 
braes to the memory of that disconsolate w^an- 
derer who reproached the birds for singing and 
the flowers for blooming, but had no harsh 
thought for that ' ' fause lover ' ' who had 
thrown her out of harmony with nature. 

In Burns' s seventh 3^ear the scene of his life 
shifted from Alloway to Mount Oliphant, a 
small seventy-acre farm some two miles distant. 
This was to be his home for more than ten 
years. The outward setting of Mount Oli- 
phant is probably little different from what it 
w^as in the poet's day, though the farm build- 
ings have necessarily been considerably re- 
modelled and enlarged. The new era which 
opened for Burns with his removal thither 

[ 13] 



^be B^rsbire Ibomes ot JBunis 

was of far-reaching importance ; he confessed 
to Dr. Moore that it was during the time he 
lived on that farm that his story was most 
eventful. There, indeed, now from the worthy 
Murdoch, now from the lips of his remarkable 
father, and anon at the parish school of Dal- 
rymple, he acquired most of the knowledge 
which teachers can impart, and there, too, he 
experienced ' ' the cheerless gloom of a hermit, 
with the unceasing moil of a galley-slave." 
One incident of the Mount Oliphant days re- 
vealed the deep tenderness of the poet's heart. 
It happened that Murdoch, the old teacher of 
Robert and Gilbert, visited the farm one night 
to take farewell of his friends ere leaving for 
another part of the country, and brought with 
him a copy of Tifus Androniais as a part- 
ing present to his pupils. When the day's 
work was done, and the family gathered to- 

[ M] 



Cbc Bvrabire 1bome6 ot Ji3urn6 

getlier, Murdoch began to read the play aloud. 
He had got to the fifth scene of the second act, 
where Lavinia appears with her hands cut off 
and her tongue cut out, but when he reached 
the taunting words of Chiron, '' Go home, call 
for sweet water, wash thy hands," the entire 
family besought him, with tears, to cease read- 
ing. The father remarked that if they would 
not hear the end of the tragedy it would be 
useless to leave the book, whereupon Robert 
at once vStruck in with the threat that if it were 
left he would burn it ! 

It was not without good cause that the poet 
complained of the hermit-like existence that fell 
to his lot on this farm. Gilbert says : ' ' Nothing 
could be more retired than our general manner 
of living at Mount Oliphant ; we rarely saw any- 
bod}^ but the members of our own family. There 
were no boys of our own age or near it in the 

[ 15 ] 



XLbc Bsrsbirc Ibomes of JSurns 

neighbourhood." This was not altogether a 
disadvantage. Burns was thus driven in upon 
himself, and to the study of such books as the 
family possessed or could borrow. But it was 
a hard life he lived at Mount Oliphant. He 
had to labour in the fields to an extent far 
beyond his strength, and to subsist on food of 
the poorest description. This continued to 
his fifteenth autumn, and then he awoke to 
love and poetry — henceforth the dual consola- 
tion of his life. It was harvest-time. In his 
work amid the golden grain it was the fortune 
of Burns to have for partner a ' ' bewitching 
creature ' ' a year younger than himself ; " a 
bonnie, sweet, sonsie lass." 

The hour had come which was to awaken the 
singing soul of Burns, and unseal that fount of 
lyric love in which all after-time was to rejoice. 
The story is best given in his own words •. "In 

[ i6] 



^be B^rebirc Ibomcs ot JQixxrxB 

short, she, altogether unwittingly to herself, in- 
itiated nie in that delicious passion which, in 
spite of acid disappointment, gin-horse pru- 
dence, and book- worm philosophy, I hold to be 
the first of human joys, our dearest blessing here 
below. How she caught the contagion I cannot 
tell ; you medical people talk much of infection 
from breathing the same air, the same touch, 
etc. ; but I never expressly said I loved her. 
Indeed I did not know ni}- self why I liked so 
much to loiter behind with her, when return- 
ing in the evening from our labour ; why the 
tones of her voice made ni}^ heart-strings thrill 
like an ^olian harp ; and particularly why 
my pulse beat such a furious ' rat-tan,' when I 
looked and fingered over her little hand to 
pick out the cruel nettle-stings and thistles. 

"Among her other love-inspiring qualities, 
she sang sweetly ; and it was her favourite 

L 17 1 



CTbe B^rsbire Ibomes of JBurns 

reel to which I attempted giving an embodied 
vehicle in rhyme, I was not so presumptnous 
as to imagine that I could make verses like the 
printed ones, composed by men who had Greek 
and Latin, but my girl sang a song which was 
vSaid to be composed by a small country laird's 
son, oil one of his father's maids, with whom 
he was in love, and I vSaw no reason why I 
might not rhyme as well as he ; for excepting 
that he could smear sheep and cut peats, his 
father living in the moorlands, he had no more 
scholar-craft than myself. Tints zvith me began 
love and poetry.'' 

Still, Mount Oliphant cannot have been a 
happy home for the Burns family. The poor 
and hungry vSoil of the farm entailed constant 
labour on every member of the family able to 
do a hand's turn, and with all their efforts no 
adequate recompense was forthcoming. Hence 

[ i8] 



Jibe Bvivsbiic 1f3ome6 of jeimis 

it must have been with a sigh of reUef that 
they turned their back upon the scene of such 
hardships to make a new trial of hfe on the 
farm at I^ochlea. This new home of Burns — 
where the next seven years of his Hfe were 
spent — was vsituated in the upper part of the 
parish of Tarbolton. It lies in a hollow and 
took its name from a small loch, now no longer 
in existence. Take it for all in all, lyochlea 
was perhaps the happiCvSt home the poet ever 
had. lyife never moved more smoothly for 
him than during the first few years in Tarbol- 
ton parish, and as yet his ungovernable pas- 
sions had not brought him into contact with 
kirk-sessions and the severer reprimands of his 
own conscience. 

Gilbert Burns used to speak of this per.od as 
the brightest in his brother's life, and was wont 
to recall wdth delight the happ}^ days the\' spent 

[ '9] 



Zbc Bgrsbire 1bome6 of :fiSurns 

together in farm work, when Robert was sure 
to enliven the tedium of labour with his unriv- 
alled conversation. It was at I^ochlea that the 
incident occurred which prompted T/ie Death 
and Dying Words of Poor Mailic, and in a 
low-lying field near the house the spot where 
that famous ewe nearly committed suicide is 
still pointed out. Other first-fruits of poesy 
were gathered during these peaceful days, and 
many of the seeds planted which were to yield 
such a prolific harvest at Mossgiel. 

The village of Tarbolton, some two miles 
distant from lyochlea, naturally figures largely 
in this period of Burns' s life. Its chief street 
still retains some continuity with the past. 
Sandwiched in here and there between houses 
of recent date may be seen man}^ of the rough- 
cast, thatch-covered cottages common in the 
poet's time. Among modern buildings, the 

[ 20] 



^be Bgrsbirc fl^omcs of JBurns 

most conspicuous are a public library and a 
masonic hall. The latter, which contains some 
valuable Burns relics, has not been erected 
many years, but is alread}' permeated with dry 
rot and is in" a filthy condition. The library 
contains about two thousand volumes, and the 
onl}^ Burns literature visible is an odd volume 
of a three- volumed edition of the poems ! It is 
not surprising, then, to hear the Tarbolton 
people frankly confess that they * * take no in- 
terest in Burns." 

There are various links connecting Burns 
with Tarbolton, one being recalled by that 
sentence in his autobiography which runs : 
" At the plough, scythe, or reap-hook, I feared 
no competitor, and set want at defiance ; and 
as I never cared further for any labours than 
while I was in actual exercise, / spent the 
evening in the way after viy own heart. ' ' The 

[ 21 ] 



^be Bgrsbirc Ibomes of JBunis 

beginning of this appears to have been attend- 
ance at a dancing-school in Tarbolton. Such 
institutions are still the common introductions 
to courtship in rural Scotland, and in the case 
of Burns there can be no doubt that his danc- 
ing-school experiences led to those innumer- 
able love episodes which now began to bulk so 
largely in his history. 

Gilbert Burns, writing of this period, says 
his brother " was constantly the victim of 
some fair enslaver, ' ' and David Sillar, a boon 
companion of the poet, remarks that he was 
frequently struck with Burns' s facility in 
addressing the fair sex. The lyochlea loves 
have left their impress on his poems. The 
mansion house of Coilsfield — transformed b}^ 
the poet to, and now known as, Montgomery 
Castle — is in the vicinity of Tarbolton, and 
two of its servants were fated to find imnior- 

[22] 



^bc Bsrsbirc 1bomc5 ot J6urn6 

tality through the young fanner of lyOchlea. 
The first was the heroine of ^fontgomcrk' s 
^\k'X''J'' She was housekeeper at Coilsfield, 
and Burns says of her that she was his deity 
for six or eight months. He adds : " She 
had been bred in a st3de of hfe rather ele- 
gant, but (as Vanbrugh saA-s in one of his 
plays) my ' damned star found me out ' there 
too ; for although I began the affair nierel}^ in 
a gaicte dc arnr, it will scarcely be believed 
that a vanity of showing nn- parts in courtship, 
particularly ni}^ abilities at a billet-doux (wdiicli 
I alwa3\s piqued mj^self upon), made me lay 
siege to her. When — as I alwa3\s do in my 
foolish gallantries — I had battered m3\self into 
a very w^arm affection for her, she one day told 
me, in a flag of truce, that her fortre.ss had 
been for some time before the rightful property 
of another. I found out afterwards, that what 

r^3] 



she told me of a pre-eiigagemeiit was really 
true ; but it cost me some heartaches to get rid 
of the affair. ' ' 

There is a tradition that Highland Mary — 
i. c\, Mary Campbell — was at one time dair^^- 
maid at Coilsfield, and it is not improbable 
that Burns finst made her acquaintance there. 
At any rate, the lovely rivulet Fail, which runs 
through the grounds of Montgomer}^ Castle, 
mingles with the nature-background of his 
most famous song to Mary's memory : 

'* Ye banks, and braes, and streams around 
The castle o' Montgomery ! 
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, 
Ycur waters never drumlie : 
• There Simmer first unfald her robes, 
And there the langest tarry ; 
For there I took the last Farewell 
O' my sweet Highland Mary." 

But there was another side to Burns' s even- 

[ 24] 



Cbe Bv>r^birc 1bomc6 ot JBiinia 

mgs from home. Sociable by nature, he 
availed himself of every opportiiiiit\' of con- 
vivial intercourse with young men of his own 
age and station. Hence the creation of that 
Bachelor's Club, where the topics for discus- 
sion seem to have been selected on the principle 
of consoling its members for their temporary- 
absence from the fair sex. Hence, too. Burns' s 
action in becoming a freemason. His initia- 
tion took place on July 4, 17S1, and the old 
thatched cottage in which the ceremony took 
place still stands at the corner of the Mauch- 
line road. It was at a meeting of the lodge 
that the idea of Death and Dr. Hornbook took 
shape. John Wilson, the Tarbolton school- 
master, who eked out his scholastic earnings 
by amateur physicking, one evening paraded 
his medical knowledge in such an ostentatious 
manner that Burns resolved, on his way home, 

[25 ] 



XLbc B^rsbire Ibomes of :©urn6 

to hold the dominie-medico up to ridicule. 
With what result the world knows. The 
scene of the dialogue between Burns and 
Death is laid just outside Tarbolton. Leaving 
the old Masonic Lodge on the right, the road 
winds ' ' round about ' ' a high mound, and then 
descends toward Willie's Mill. In the bank 
by the roadside, under the shadow of a hedge, 
local tradition points to a few rough, project- 
ing stones as the seat where the poet and his 
gaunt friend " eased their shanks " while dis- 
cussing the skill of Dr. Hornbook. 

When William Burns died in 1784, the last 
link was snapped which held his family at 
Lochlea. Prior to that event, however, Robert 
and Gilbert had taken the farm of Mossgiel, 
" as an asylum for the family in case of the 
worst." With the removal to Mossgiel, the 
poet took a resolve to mend his ways and 

[ 26] 



address himself seriously to the work of life. 
" I read fanning books," he said, " I calcu- 
lated crops, I attended markets, and, in short, 
in spite of the devil, and the world, and the 
flesh, I believe I should have been a wise 
man ; but the first year, from unfortunately 
buying bad seed, the secotid, from a late har- 
vest, we lost half our crops. This overset all 
ni}^ wisdom, and I returned like the dog to his 
vomit, and the sow that was washed to her wal- 
lowing in the mire." 

It is impossible to doubt that Burns really 
desired to settle down for himself. Already 
he had made several efforts in that direction, 
each of which had been remorselessly thwarted. 
He groped about for the clue which should 
enable him to nnravel his life in an orderly 
fashion, but it was his misfortune always to 
lay hold of a loop in the skein, and b}^ vio- 

[ 27] 



lent tugging at that to reduce the whole to 
a hopeless tangle. " The great misfortune 
of my life," he confesses, "was to want an 
aim." At first, Mossgiel promised to pro- 
vide that aim. His father was dead ; on 
him and his brother Gilbert had devolved the 
care of the widowed mother and her other 
fatherless children. But the trinity of evil 
proved too strong for the poet. The world, in 
the shape of convivial companions ; the devil, 
in the form of bad seed and late harvests ; the 
flesh, in the enchantments of love — these met 
Burns' s resolution in a stern stand-up fight, 
and speedily won a complete victory. Hence 
it came to pass that the Mossgiel period was 
of crucial importance in the life of Burns ; it 
made his weakness as a man and his powers 
as a poet patent to the world. 

The farm of Mossgiel is situated in the parish 

[28 J 



Cbc B\?r6bire Iboincs of 3Qmm 

of Mauchliiie, from the town of which name it 
is about a mile distant. Whatever it ma}^ have 
been in the poet's time, it strikes the visitor in 
these da3'S as a most desirable home. Although 
writtt^n more than sixty 3^ears ago, Words- 
worth's sonnet is still accurate in its chief out- 
lines : 

" ' There,' said a Stripling, poiuting with meet pride, 
Towards a low roof with green trees half concealed, 
' Is Mossgiel Farm ; and that 's the very field 
Where Burns ploughed up the Daisy.' Far and wide 
A plain below stretched seaward, while descried 
Above sea-clouds, the Peaks of Arran rose : 
And, by that simple notice, the repose 
Of earth, sky, sea, and air, was vivified. 
Beneath ' the random dield of clod or stone ' 
Myriads of daisies have shone forth in flower 
Near the lark's nest, and in their natural hour 
Have passed away ; less happy than the One 
That, by the unwilling ploughshare, died to prove 
The tender charm of poetry and love." 

The house stands on a high ridge, some 
[29] 



XLbc 'B))vebix'c IfDomes of :i6iun0 

sixt}^ yards back from the road, and is screened 
with a stalwart thorn hedge, which the poet 
and his brother are said to have planted. Its 
walls have been considerably raised vSince it 
was Bnrns's home, and the roof of thatch has 
given place to one of slates. When Haw- 
thorne visited it in 1857, ^^^^ forced his way 
inside in the absence of the famil}', he fonnd it 
remarkable for nothing so much as its dirt and 
dunghill odour. There is neither dirt nor 
odour to-day. The goodwife of the present 
occupant of Mossgiel, Mr. Wyllie, keeps her 
house spotlessly clean, notwithstanding the 
demands made upon her time by innumerable 
inquisitive visitors. On the parlour table lies 
a copious visitors' book, and in the same room 
hang the manuscript of T/ir Lass 0' Balloch- 
viyle, and the letter in which Burns asked Miss 
Alexander's permission to publish the song. 

[30] 



Cbe a^rsbirc Ibomes of JiSuins 

At the back of the house lies the field where 
Burns turned down the daisy, and the soil 
' ' seems to have been consecrated to daisies by 
the song which he bestowed on that first im- 
mortal one." Over the hedge, there, is the 
other field where the poet's ploughshare tore 
up the mouse's nest. 

The neighbouring town of Mauchline is a 
central spot in the history of Burns. In its 
dancing-hall he finst met Jane Armour, the 
inspirer of man}- of his deathless songs, and 
the destined wifely companion of his fortunes ; 
under the roof of Poosie Nansie's hostel he saw 
the tattered vagrants whom his imagination 
transferred to the pages of literature in 
The JoUy Beggars ; outside the old church 
he often witnessed those unseemly incidents 
so unsparingl}' satirised in The Holy Fair ; 
Mauchline Castle was the home of his warm- 

[31 1 



^be B^rsbirc If^omes of Burns 

hearted friend, Gavin Hamilton, and the scene 
of several interesting events in his own life ; 
and in the churchyard sleep many whom he 
marked as targets for invective or subjects for 
eulogy. Perhaps because it is not quite such a 
rural outpost, Mauchline has changed more 
than Tarbolton. Still, there are many build- 
ings which take the mind back to the poet's 
time, and in the main the topography of the 
place is practically unchanged. The Cowgate 
illustrates both facts. Here there are several 
houses which have changed but little during 
the past hundred years, and the position of the 
street, with the church at the end, provides an 
illuminating comment on that verse of The 
Holy Fair which records how 

"... Peebles, frae the water-fit 
Ascends the holy rostrum : 
See, up he 's got the word o' God, 

[ 32 ] 



(Tbc Bv>r6bire Ibomcs of .tSurns 

An' meek an' mini has view'd it. 
While Common-sense has ta'en the road, 
An' afF, an' up the Cowgate 
Fast, fast that day." 

At the corner of the Cowgate stands Poosie 
Nansie's hostel, bearing upon its gable-end the 
legend that it is " The Jolly Beggars' Howf. ' ' 
In the time of Burns this cottage was a lodg- 
ing-house for vagrants, and it seems that the 
poet and some of his companions were wont to 
drop in occasionally late at night to vSee the 
maimed and the blind in their undress of 
sound limbs and opened eyes. 

'* Ae night, at e'en, a merry core 

O' randie, gaugrel bodies, 
In Poosie Nansie's held the splore, 

To drink their orra duddies. 
Wi' quaffing an' laughing 

They ranted an' they sang ; 
Wi' jumping an' thumping, 

The vera girdle rang." 

[ 33] 



tTbe n^xsbivc Ibomes of JBurns 

Another resort of Burns in these Mauchline 
days has honourable mention in one of his 
early poems. Towards the close of T/ie 
Author's Earnest Cry and Prayer, he ex- 
claims : 

" Tell yon guid bluid o' auld Bonconnock's, 
I '11 be his debt twa mashlum boniiocks, 
Au' drink his health in auld Nanse Tinnock's 

Nine times a week, 
If he some scheme, like tea and winnocks, 

Wad kindly seek." 

In a footnote to the name of Nanse Tinnock 
the poet explained that she was " a worth }^ 
old hostess of the author's in Mauchline, 
where he sometimes studied politics ov^er a 
glass of guid, auld Scotch drink." Nanse Tin- 
nock's house ma}' still be seen down a narrow 
lane leading towards the churchj^ard, and op- 
posite is the cottage where Burns is said to 
have " taken up house " with Jean Armour. 

[34] 



^be BK>r0birc fbomes ot JBurns 

From the windows of this cottage a good view 
is obtained of Mauchline Castle, in the busi- 
ness room of which Burns is reputed to have 
been married. The castle has undergone little 
or no change these hundred years, and it is 
easy to recall that Sabbath morning when the 
worthy Gavin Hamilton, petitioned by his 
children for some new potatoes for dinner, in- 
structed his gardener to dig a few, little think- 
ing that the eyes of the ' ' unco guid ' ' were 
upon him and that the Mauchline kirk-session 
would bring him to book for such sacrilegious 
fatherly indulgence. Facing the head of the 
main street the visitor observes a building- 
block divided into several houses, and his 
interest in it is quickened when he learns that 
the house at the near corner was the home of 
the Morrisons. From this hou.se to the 
churdhyard is but a few steps, and one of the 

[35 ] 



^be Bsrsbire Ibomes ot JBuriis 

first tombstones to arrest his attention reads 
thus : "In memory of Adj. John Morrison, of 
the 104th Regiment, who died at Mauchhne, 
1 6th April, 1804, in the 8oth year of his age ; 
also his daughter Mary — the Poet's Bonnie 
Mary Morrison — who died 29th June, 1791, 
aged 20." Other tombstones bear names or 
are linked with memories of men and women 
just as familiar. In a far-off corner, with a 
white- washed wall for background, stands the 
memorial of the Rev. William Auld, better 
known to fame as the ' * Daddie Auld ' ' of T/ie 
Kirk' s Alarm. By its side lie the ashes of 
Johnnie Richmond, that Mauchline friend of 
Burns who was his first host in Edinburgh. 
A time-worn slab marks the grave of William 
Fisher, that village Pharisee whose after life 
and death justified the Prayer Burns put in his 
mouth. The inscription has faded away, 

[36] 



^be B^rsbirc Ibomes of :fl3uin6 

but every reader of Burns can supply the 
epitaph : 

*' Here Holy Willie's sair worn clay 
Taks up its last abode ; 
His saul has ta'en some other way, — 
I fear, the left-hand road." 

Not far away from Holy Willie's grave is the 
lair of Gavin Hamilton, enclosed with a simple 
iron railing, but devoid of any memorial stone. 
Such was the wish of that worthy lawyer, and 
hence his epitaph must be sought in the pages 
of Burns : 

*' The poor man weeps — here Gavin sleeps, 
Whom canting wretches blam'd ; 
But with such as he, where'er he be, 
May I be sav'd or damn'd ! " 

Adjoining the end of the church is the burial- 
place of the Alexanders of Ballochmjde, the top 
marble tablet on the left hand commemorat- 

[37] 



^be Bgrsblre Ibomes ot :©uni6 

ing the laird of the poet's time. One other 
grave of interest is that of the Armours, from 
whose family Burns chose his wife, and under 
the prostrate stone within these railings the 
infant daughters of the poet are buried. 

One of the favourite walks of Burns was 
among the braes of Ballochmyle, some two 
miles distant, and no poet could have made 
a better choice in the Mauchline country- 
side. Close by, the river Ayr runs its turbu- 
lent course, and between the two he had 
copious material for poetic thought. But, 
somehow, it is humanity rather than nature 
which asserts its supremacy while wandering 
among the Ayrshire homes and haunts of 
Burns. It is fit it should be .so, for a large 
part of the world's debt to Burns consists in 
the fact that he made common life classical. 
To coin quotable couplets out of the ordinary 

[38] 



trbc B^rebirc If^onica ot JBiirns 

incidents of lowliest lives was his prerogative. 
The world sadly needed teaching to make an 
ideal out of its actual, and that lesson he 
taught. The annals of the poorest peasant's 
life are now as immortal as the exploits of 
Hector or the victories of Achilles. Little 
things have become great things since Burns 
sang of them. The mouse is a demi-god now ; 
the dais}^ a flower of paradise. The oft- 
returning Saturday night of the cottar is no 
longer the common thing it was ; it is a sacra- 
ment of life. 

Fresh links of sympathy and love between 
man and beast have been forged by the pen 
of Burns, and even the food on our tables 
— the ''halesome parritch, chief o' Scotia's 
food," and haggis, " great chieftain o' the 
pudding race," — is as the ambrosia of the 
immortals. Burns achieved the apotheosis of 

[ 39] 



Zbc B^rgbire Ibomes ot JBunis 

common life, and tlie height of that achieve- 
ment can nowhere be better measured than 
among his Ayrshire homes. 



[40] 



THE AYRSHIRE HOMES OF BURNS 



[41 1 



THE POET'vS BIRTHPIvACE, ALLOW AY. 



W 



ITH secret throes I marked that earth, 
That Cottage, witness of my birth. 



There was a lad was born in Kyle, 
But whatna day o' whatna style, 
I doubt it 's hardly worth the while 
To be sae nice wi' Robin. 

Our monarch's hindmost year but ane 
Was five-and-tweuty days begun, 
'T was then a blast o' Jan war win' 
Blew hansel in on Robin." 



I 43] 



the; pokt's birthpi^ace, ali^oway. 



[44 



ALLOWAY'vS AUIvD HAUNTED KIRK. 

WHEN, glimmering thro' the groaning trees, 
Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze ; 
Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing, 
And loud resounded mirth and dancing. 



" But Maggie stood right sair astonish'd, 
Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd, 
She ventur'd forward on the light ; 
And, wow ! Tam saw an unco sight ! 
Warlocks and witches in a dance : 
Nae cotillon brent new frae France, 
But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels. 
Put life and mettle in their heels. 
A winnock -bunker in the east, 
There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast ; 
A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large, 
To gie them music was his charge : 
He screw'd the pipes and gart them skirl, 
Till roof and rafters a' did dirl." 



[47 



'AI,I,OWAY'S AUI.D HAUNTED KIRK. 



[48] 



THE GRAVE OF BURNS' S FATHER. 

OH, ye whose cheek the tear of pity stains, 
Draw near with pious rev'rence and attend ! 
Here lie the loving husband's dear remains, 

The tender father, and the gen'rous friend ; 
The pitying heart that felt for human woe, 

The dauntless heart that feared no human pride ; 
The friend of man — to vice alone a foe ; 

For ' ev'n his failings lean'd to virtue's side.' " 



[ 51 ] 



THE GRAVE OF BURNS'S FATHER. 



[ 52 ] 



THE AUIvD BRIG O' DOON. 

YE banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, 
How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair ? 
How can ye chant, ye little birds, 

And I sae weary fu' o' care ! 
Thou 'It break my heart, thou warbling bird, 

That wantons thro' the flowering thorn : 
Thon minds me o' departed joys, 
Departed never to return. 



Aft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doou, 
To see the rose and woodbine twine 

And ilka bird sang o' its Luve, 
And fondly sae did I o' mine." 



[55] 



THE AUIvD BRIG O' DOON. 



[ 56] 



MOUNT OLIPHANT. 

OH, ouce I loved a bonie lass, 
Ay, and I love ber still ; 
And wbilst tbat virtue warms my breast, 
I '11 love my baudsome Nell. 



" Sbe dresses aye sae clean and neat, 
Botb decent and genteel : 
And tben tbere 's somctbing in ber gait 
Gars onie dress look weel. 

" A gaudy dress and gentle air 
May sligbtly toucb tbe beart. 
But it 's innocence and modesty 
That polisbes tbe dart." 



The above stanzas are from Burns 's first love song, written at 
Mount Oliphant. 



[ 59] 



MOUNT OUPHANT. 



[60] 



LOCHIvEA. 

MY father was a farmer 
Upon the Carrick border, O, 
And carefully he bred me 

In decency and order, O ; 
He bade me act a manly part. 

Though I had ne'er a farthing, O, 
For without an honest manly heart, 
No man was worth regarding, O. 



" No help, nor hope, nor view had I, 
Nor person to befriend me, O ; 
So I must toil, and sweat, and moil, 

And labour to sustain me, O, 
To plough and sow, to reap and mow, 

My father bred me early, O ; 
For one, he said, to labour bred, 
Was a match for Fortune fairly, O. 
[ 63 ] 



Xocblea 

Thus, all obscure, unknown, and poor, 

Thro' life I 'm doomed to wander, O, 
Till down my weary bones I lay, 

In everlasting slumber, O. 
No view nor care, but shun whate'er 

Might breed me pain or sorrow, O ; 
Alive to-day as well 's I may. 

Regardless of to-morrow, O." 



[65] 



IvOCHLKA. 



[66] 



TARBOLTON. 

FROM scenes like these, old Scotia's grandenr 
springs, 

That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd abroad : 
Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, 

' An honest man 's the noblest work of God '; 
And certes, in fair virtue's heavenly road, 

The cottage leaves the palace far behind ; 
What is a lordling's pomp ? a cumbrous load, 

Disguising oft the wretch of human kind. 

Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refin'd ! " 



[69] 



TARBOI.TON. 



[7o] 



ON THE FAIL. 

YE bauks, aiul braes, and streams around 
The Castle o' Montgomery ! 
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, 

Your waters never drunUie : 
There Simmer first unfald her robes, 

And there the langest tarry ; 

For there I took the last Farewel 

O' my sweet Highland Mary. 

How sweetly bloomed the ga}- green birk, 

How rich the hawthorn's blossom, 
As underneath their fragrant shade, 

I clasp'd her to my bosom ! 
The golden Hours, on angel wings. 

Flew o'er me and my Dearie ; 
For dear to me, as light and life. 

Was my sweet Highland Mary." 



[73] 



ON THE FAII, 



[ 74] 



OLD MASONIC LODGE, TARBOLTON. 

" A DIKU ! a heart-warm, fond adieu ; 
/^ Dear brothers of the mystic tie ! 
Ye favour'd, ye enlighten'' d few, 

Compariions of my social joy ; 
'iho' I to foreign lands must hie. 

Pursuing Fortune's slidd'ry ba', 
With melting heart, and brimful eye, 

I '11 mind you still, tbo' far awa'. 

" Oft have I luet your social band, 

And spent the cheerful, festive night ; 
Oft, honour'd with supreme command, 

Presided o'er the sons of light : 
And by that hieroglyphic bright, 

Which none but Craftsmen ever saw ! 
Strong Mem'ry on my heart shall write 

Those happy scenes when far awa." 



[ 77 ] 



OIvD MASONIC I.ODGE, TARBOI^TON. 



[78] 



WILLIE'S MILL. 

THE clachan yill bad made me canty, 
I was ua fou, but just bad plenty ; 
I stacber'd wbiles, but yet took tent aye 

To free tbe ditcbes ; 
An' billocks, stanes, and busbes, kenn'd aye 
Frae gbaists an' witcbes. 

Tbe rising moon began to glowre 
Tbe distant Cumnock bills out-owre : 
To count ber borns, wi' a' my pow'r, 

I set mysel'; 
But wbetber sbe bad tbree or four, 

I cou'd na tell. 

I was come round about tbe bill, 
An' todlin down on Willie's mill. 
Setting my staff wi' a' my skill, 

To keep me sicker ; 
Tbo' leeward whiles, against my will, 

I took a bicker." 



[8i ] 



WIIvWE'S MII,I.o 



[82 ] 



A SEAT NEAR WILLIE' vS MILL. 

WEEL, weel ! ' says I, ' a bargain be 't ; 
Come, gie 's your band, an' sae we 're 
gree 't ; 
We '11 ease our sbanks an' tak a seat^ 
Come, gie's your news ; 
Tbis wbile ye bae been mony a gate, 
At mony a bouse.' " 

Ay, ay ! ' quo' be, an' sbook bis bead, 
It 's e'en a laug, lang time indeed 
Sin' I began to nick tbe tbread, 

An' cboke tbe breatb : 
Folk maun do sometbing for tbeir bread, 

An' sae maun Death.' " 



[85 1 



BURNS'S SEAT, N^AR WII^IylE'S Mllyl^. 



[86 ] 



MOSSGIKIv. 

O LEAVE novels, ye Mauchline belles, 
Ye 're safer at your spinning wheel 
Such witching books are baited hooks 
For rakish rooks like Rob Mossgiel. 



Beware a tongue that 's smoothly hung, 
A heart that warmly seems to feel ; 

That feeling heart but acts a part — 
'T is rakish art in Rob Mosso;iel." 



[89] 



MOSSGIEIv. 



[90] 



THE COWGATE, MAUCHLINE. 

NOW a' the congregatiou o'er 
Is sileut expectation ; 
For Moodie speels the holy door, 
Wi' tidings o' damnation : 
Should Hornie, as in ancient days, 
'Mang sons o' God present him, 
The vera sight o' Moodie's face, 
To 's ain het hame had sent him 
Wi' fright that day. 



But hark ! the tent has changed its voice 

There 's peace an' rest nae langer : 
For a' the real judges rise. 

They canna sit for anger, 
Smith opens out his cauld harangues, 

On practice and on morals ; 
An' affthe godly pour in thrangs. 

To gie the jars an' barrels 
A lift that day. 

[93 ] 



XLbc Cowciate, ^aucblinc 

In guid time comes an antidote 

Against sic poison'd nostrum ; 
For Peebles, frae the water-fit, 

Ascends the holy rostrum : 
See, up he 's got the Word o' God, 

An' meek an' mim has viewed it, 
While Common Sense has ta'en the road, 

An' aff, an' up the Cowgate, 
Fast, fast that day." 



[95 ] 



the; cowgate;, mauchune;. 



[96] 



POOSIE NANSIE'S. 

WHEN lyart leaves bestrew the yird, 
Or wavering like the bauckie-bird, 
Bedim cauld Boreas' blast ; 
When hailstanes drive wi' bitter skyte, 
And infant frosts begin to bite, 

In hoary cranreuch drest ; 
Ae night, at e'en, a merry core 

O' randie, gangrel bodies. 
In Poosie Nansie's held the splore, 
To drink their orra duddies ; 
Wi' quaffing and laughing. 

They ranted an' they sang, 
Wi' jumping an' thumping, 
The vera girdle rang." 



[99] 



POOSIE NANSIE'S. 



[ lOO J 



NANCE TINNOCK'S. 

TEIvIv yon guid bluid o' auld Boconnock's, 
I '11 be his debt twa masblum bonnocks, 
An' drink his health in auld Nance Tinnock's, 

Nine times a week, 
If he some scheme, like tea an' winnocks. 
Wad kindly seek." 



r TOT ] 



nance: TINNOCK'S. 



[ T04 ] 



MAUCHLINE CAvSTLE. 

(The Home of Gavin Hamilton.) 

IWIIvIy not wind a lang conclusion, 
With complimentary effusion ; 
But whilst your wishes and endeavours 
Are blest with Fortune's smiles and favours, 
I am, dear Sir, with zeal most fervent, 
Your much indebted, humble servant. 

But if (which Powers above prevent !) 
That iron-hearted carl. Want, 
Attended, in his grim advances 
By sad mistakes, and black mischances, 
"While hopes, and joys, and pleasures fly him, 
Make you as poor a dog as I am. 
Your, humble servant, then no more ; 
For who would humbly serve the poor? 
But, by a poor man's hopes in Heav'n ! 
While recollection's pow'r is giv'n, 
If, in the vale of humble life, 
The victim sad of fortune's strife, 
I, thro' the tender gushing tear. 
Should recognise my master dear ; 
If friendless, low, we meet together, 
Then, Sir, your hand— my friend and brother 
[ 107] 



MAUCHUNE; CASTILE. 



[ 108 ] 



THE MORISONS' HOME, MAUCHLINE. 

OMARY, at thy window be, 
It is the wish'd, the trysted hour ! 
Those smiles and glances let me see, 

That make the miser's treasure poor : 
How blithely wad I bide the stour, 

A weary slave frae sun to sun, 
Could I the rich reward secure, 
The lovely Mary Morison." 



[ "I ] 



THE MORISONS' HOME, MAUCHLINE. 



[ 112] 



i- 


tniii-i 


^ 


V 'A .--.f^ 


wis 


\fer«r-. V ' 




\\ 




, Y="-^:^r'Kr 




\k^.'~ 




"A.. '1«,'^ 




. V^^ p^,.- - 




lis- .' ^-' ^ 




\^ . ,p^.--. 




\—-r.j r-:.;;r- 




s ee 




M . 



TO MARY IN HEAVEN. 

STILL o'er these scenes my mern'ry wakes, 
And fondly broods with miser-care ! 
Time but th' impression stronger makes, 
As streams their channels deeper wear, 
My Mary, dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy place of blissful rest ? 
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? 



[ "5 ] 



MARY MORISON'S TOMB. 



[ ii6] 



"DADDY AUIvD'S" TOMB. 



D 



ADDY AUIvD ! Daddy Auld, 
There 's a tod in the fauld, 
A tod meikle waur than the clerk ; 
Though ye do little skaith, 
Ye '11 be in at the death, 
For gif ye canna bite, ye may bark. 
Daddy Auld ! Gif ye canna bite, ye may bark." 



[ 119] 



DADDY AUIvD'S" TOMB. 



[ I20 ] 



"HOIvY WILLIE'vS" TOMB. 

HERB Holy Willie's sairworn clay 
Taks up its last abode ; 
His saul has ta'en some other way, 
I fear, the left-hand road. 

Stop ! there he is, as sure 's a gun. 

Poor, silly body, see him ; 
Nae wonder he 's as black 's the grun, 

Observe wha's standing wi' him. 

Your brunstane devilship, I see, 
Has got him there before ye ; 

But baud your nine-tail cat a wee. 
Till ance ye 've heard my story. 

Your pity I will not implore, 

For pity yc have nane ; 
Justice, alas ! has gi'en him o'er. 

And mercy's day is gane, 

[ 123 ] 



**1bols "Millie's" XLomb 

But here me, Sir, de'il as 3'e are, 
Look something to your credit ; 

A coof like him wad stain your name, 
If it were kent ye did it." 



[ 125] 



Hoi^Y wii,ue;'S" tomb. 



[ 126] 





m^ 



GAVIN HAMILTON'S LAIR. 

THB poor man weeps — here Gavin sleeps, 
Whom canting wretches blam'd ; 
But with such as he, where'er he be, 
May I be sav'd or damned ! " 



[ T29 ] 



GAVIN HAMILTON'S I.AIR. 



[ 130 ] 



•r 





BURIAIv-PIvACK OF THE ALEXANDERS. 

(The heroine of The Lass o' Ballochmyle was a 
Miss Alexander.) 

" 1~~^ AIR is the nioru in flowery May, 
j^^ And sweet is night in autumn mild ; 
When roving thro' the garden gay, 

Or wand'ring in the lonely wild : 
But woman, nature's darling child ! 

There all her charms she does compile ; 
Even there her other works are foil'd 

By the bouie lass o' Ballochmyle. 

" O ! had she been a country maid. 

And I the happy country swain, 
Tho' sheltered in the lowest shed 

That ever rose on Scotland's plain ! 
Thro' weary winter's wind and rain, 

With joy, with rapture, I would toil ; 
And nightly to my bosom strain 

The bonie lass o' Ballochmyle." 



[ 133] 



BURIAI,-PI.ACE OF TH^ AI.EXANDKRS. 



134 



DEATH. 

AND thou grim Pow'r by life abhorr'd, 
While life a pleasure can afford, 
Oh ! hear a wretch's pray'r ! 
Nor more I shriuk appail'd, afraid ; 
I court, I beg thy friendly aid. 

To close this scene of care ! 
When shall my soul, in silent peace, 

Resign life's joyless day — 
My weary heart its throbbings cease, 
Cold mould'ring in the clay ? 
No fear more, no tear more, 
To stain my lifeless face, 
Enclasped and grasped. 

Within thy cold embrace ! " 



[ 137 ] 



THE ARMOURS' GRAVK. 



[ 138] 



THE BRAES OF BALLOCHMYLE. 

THE Catriue woods were yellow seen, 
The flowers decayed on Catrlne lee, 
Nae lav'rock sang on hillock green, 

But nature sickened on the e'e. 
Thro' faded groves Maria sang, 

Hersel' in beauty's bloom the while ; 
And aye the wild-wood echoes rang, 
Fareweel the braes o' Ballochmyle ! 

lyow in your wintry beds, ye flowers. 

Again ye '11 flourish fresh and fair ; 
Ye birdies dumb, in with'ring bowers. 

Again ye '11 charm the vocal air. 
But here, alas ! for me nae mair 

Shall birdie charm or floweret smile ; 
Fareweel the bonnie banks of Ayr, 

Fareweel, fareweel, sweet Ballochmyle ! 



L MI ] 



THE HRAES OF BAI.I.OCHMYI,E. 



[M2] 



THE BANKS OF AYR. 

THE Autumn mourns her rip'ning corn 
By early Winter's ravage torn ; 
Across her placid, azure sky, 
She sees the scowling tempest fly : 
Chill runs my blood to hear it rave ; 
I think upon the stormy wave, 
Where many a danger I must dare, 
Far from the bonie banks of Ayr. 

'T is not the surging billow's roar, 
'T is not that fatal, deadly shore ; 
Tho' death in every shape appear, 
The wretched have no more to fear : 
But round my heart the ties are bound, 
That heart transpierc'd with many a wound 
These bleed afresh, those ties I tear, 
To leave the bonie banks of Ayr. 
[ 145 J 



Cbc :fi3anf?0 of Bgr 

Farewell, old Coila's bills aud dales, 
Her heathy moors and winding vales ; 
The scenes where wretched Fancy roves, 
Pursuing past, unhappy loves ! 
Farewell, my friends ! farewell, my foes ! 
My peace with these, my love with those 
The bursting tears my heart declare — 
Farewell, the bonie banks of Ayr ! " 



[ 147] 



the: banks of AYR. 



r 148 1 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




014 389 936 6 



